Derailed Conscience

by Eliza Green

  'Ms. Green has taken psychological drama to the jagged edge of one’s imagination.'

  Top 500 Amazon Reviewer

  'A very interesting story that will have a big appeal to fans of ‘Twilight Zone’.

  Top 100 Amazon Reviewer

  This book is approximately 88 pages in length.

  DERAILED CONSCIENCE

  A NOVELLA

  By

  Eliza Green

  Copyright © 2015 Eliza Green

  Smashwords Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copy Editor: Averill Buchanan

  Proofreader: Mary McCauley

  Cover Design: Design for Writers

  Chapter 1

  Monday

  The weather officials hadn’t forecast rain, but it was pouring from the sky like someone had left the garden hose running. Jonathan Farrell’s navy blue overcoat, much like his patience, was far too thin. He shivered hard as giant rain droplets rolled off the small black umbrella he was holding and down the inside of his coat.

  ‘If I never see the fucking rain again …’ He ground his teeth together.

  Jonathan’s mood was more down than up these days and the weather reflected it. He trundled along, trying to avoid the backsplash from the passing cars as they drove too fast through puddles.

  The town of Spelling in North Hampshire was less attractive in the wet. He passed through holographic advertisements suspended in the air across the pavement spanning the distance from shop front to the edge of the kerb. They each emitted a low hum. A familiar feeling rose from the pit of Jonathan’s stomach that caused him to stop walking. Cowering under his inappropriately sized umbrella, he resisted the urge to run and hide in the shadows. He glanced uneasily at the people who passed by, seeing nothing in their expressions for him to be concerned about. So why did he feel like this, as if something bad was about to happen?

  The feeling passed and he walked on. The pavement beneath Jonathan’s black lacquered shoes felt as slippery as ice in parts and he wished he had broken with tradition and worn heavy, waterproof boots for his meeting.

  ‘Screw this rain, and screw this day …’ he muttered taking each step carefully.

  The rain continued to fall in defiance of his protests.

  He walked on, checking the street signs as he did. While holding his brown leather briefcase in one hand and his umbrella in the other, he tried to turn up the collar on his overcoat, but was not successful. A giant droplet entered the space between his coat and his neck. He seized up and squeezed his eyes shut. But only briefly. The next step caught him off guard when he felt something cold seep into his shoe. He pulled his foot free from the grey puddle of water.

  ‘Christ …’

  Jonathan grasped at his shoe, aching to pull it off and squeeze the water out of his sock. He hopped on one foot, but put it back down again.

  I need to get out of this rain. I’m already soaked to my skin.

  Across from him was an old-style tea shop with a brightly coloured exterior. It beckoned him inside, a lovely vision amidst the murky, grey day. The black of the hand-painted sign saying ‘Eccles Tea Shop’ was offset by a primrose wall with green ivy climbers. A bright red awning stretched out below the sign. Hand-painted signs were a rare enough sight these days; even Spelling, which prided itself on attracting holiday goers, had succumbed to the tackiness of holograms, just like other beauty spots in the country. So it was for that reason that Jonathan couldn’t stop staring at the traditional-looking tea shop.

  He darted underneath the awning and pulled his left shoe off. He tipped out the water from his shoe and squeezed whatever he could from his sock while it was still on his foot.

  ‘Jesus …’ he mumbled.

  The shoe felt more unpleasant going on than it did coming off. A hot shower was suddenly all he could think of, that sharp stab of warm pleasure as the water hit his skin. But not yet, not until he had met with Dr Fenway, a psychiatrist based in the area. Jonathan’s role as assistant to a London-based psychologist involved many field trips, but none as wet as this one.

  He turned around and peered into the tea shop’s fogged-up window, cupping his hands around his face. The interior looked cosy and inviting but, more importantly, warm. He pushed against the door and a small bell rattled above his head.

  The smell of cinnamon and spice hit him with all the power of an aphrodisiac and he instantly forgot about the rain outside. The tea shop was small, bright and warm with colourful paintings on the walls, giving it an old-fashioned feel to match its exterior. Several round glass-topped tables with chairs clustered around them filled the space. Behind the counter were several boxes of loose tea—Ceylon, Earl Grey, Rooibos—available for purchase, or to drink on the premises. The shop was half-full with customers sipping on their favourite brews and reading their favourite books.

  Jonathan shook the rain off his coat, then shivered as the chill from his wet clothes seeped into his bones. It was autumn and the weather was starting to turn. He spotted a free table and claimed it by draping his coat over the back of one chair. He dropped his bag and umbrella on the floor and sat down in the other, facing towards the counter. Another shiver ran through him as the warm air met his cold skin. His stiff body slowly began to relax. Around him, people were hugging steaming mugs of tea and coffee. He examined the menu and nodded to the man behind the counter.

  A man in his sixties, presumably the owner, approached with a transparent digital notepad and a stylus pen. ‘Terrible weather we’re having. Just started this morning and hasn’t let up. What can I get you?’

  ‘A pot of Earl Grey tea and any of your cream-filled cakes. I don’t care which one.’ Jonathan shivered again.

  The owner hit the notepad with the stylus and eyed him more closely. ‘Haven’t seen you around here before. Are you on holidays?’

  Jonathan could see everything he was writing. ‘Nope. Business.’

  The man nodded. ‘Yeah. Didn’t think you were a local. It’s much nicer here when it’s sunny. You should come back then. Really see the place in its full glory.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ Jonathan blew into his hands. ‘I don’t mean to be rude but if I could get that tea?’

  The owner laughed. ‘Sorry, I tend to ramble a bit. Sit tight. Your tea won’t be long.’ He scurried away.

  Jonathan sat back in his chair and noticed an attractive dark-haired woman sitting to his right. She had a book in one hand and was pinching a lump off a piece of chocolate cake with her fingers and dropping it in her mouth.

  ‘That looks good,’ he said nodding at the cake.

  She turned her head and smiled politely. ‘It is.’ The smile faded and she looked away, continuing to read.

  Jonathan thought about asking her if she’d like to join him, but most people sat alone for good reason. The owner reappeared, carrying a small tray with a pot of tea and a cream puff and placed the tea, a mug and the pastry in front of him. He could almost smell the calories in the thick, creamy topping alone. At twenty-five, he could eat what he wanted and not worry about his figure. He hadn’t yet developed that Buddha belly that seemed to define most men of a certain age, including the tea-shop owner himself.

  He seemed a friendly eno
ugh man, as most people in the service industry were. Jonathan was about to thank him, but a sudden change in the owner’s expression caught him by surprise. The owner was staring at him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. The mood in Eccles Tea Shop had changed and Jonathan was at a loss to know why.

  The owner’s eyes were large, intimidating, as if Jonathan had offended him in some way. Why had his mood changed so quickly?

  ‘What are you doing here?’ The glimmer of recognition in the owner’s eyes had Jonathan at a disadvantage. He’d never been to Spelling, let alone set foot inside Eccles Tea Shop, and he’d certainly never met this man before.

  Jonathan narrowed his gaze at him. ‘I’m sorry, have we met before?’

  ‘Why did you fucking do it? Why did you kill her?’

  A flush of red crept up Jonathan’s neck staining his face. His eyes darted around the room. ‘Kill who?’ He thought of his identical twin brother, just out of prison. But Eddie wasn’t a murderer—not that he knew of. Drugs, yes. But a killer?

  The owner jabbed a finger at him. ‘You’re some piece of work. Why scum like you are allowed to walk free is beyond me.’

  ‘I … I … I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Jonathan tried to control the volume of his voice. ‘I’ve never met you before.’ He looked to the others in the tea shop for help. Their heads were turned towards the argument, their eyes and faces devoid of emotion.

  Jonathan stiffened with fear. Nothing about this felt right.

  The owner grabbed the pot of tea from the table and emptied it out into Jonathan’s lap. Jonathan slammed his chair back but wasn’t fast enough. The scalding tea splashed all over his legs.

  ‘Shit!’ He shot up, pulling the hot fabric of his trousers away from his legs. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Get out of my shop, you piece of filth!’ The man was screaming at him now, tiny drops of spittle landing on Jonathan’s face. The other customers remained impassive, silently watching.

  ‘With pleasure!’ Jonathan swiped up his rain-soaked coat and backed out of the tea shop. Still watching the owner, he pushed the door open and a blast of cold air streamed in. He ran out onto the road, barely hearing the car before he saw it. A loud noise broke his concentration and he jumped back on to the pavement.

  An old woman walking by slowed, her hands outstretched towards him. ‘You okay, lad?’ she asked, grabbing his arm.

  ‘Did you just see that? He … he just went crazy!’ Jonathan tugged at a clump of his damp blond hair, then released it.

  ‘Well, I don’t think he expected you to walk in front of him like that.’ The woman seemed confused. She released his arm.

  Jonathan frowned and shook his head. ‘I wasn’t talking about the driver.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘The man in there!’ He pointed towards the tea shop. There were many pitfalls to being an identical twin, but being confused for Eddie was the worst he could think of right now.

  ‘Frank, the owner? He’s a pussycat.’ She looked at Jonathan warily. ‘Now, it looks to me like you’ve suffered a little shock. Best you get back to wherever you’re staying.’

  The woman walked on and Jonathan risked a glance back inside the tea shop. What he saw caused his brow to furrow.

  The owner seemed perfectly calm again. On his hands and knees, the owner pushed a cloth around to mop up the spill caused by his own rage. Looking confused as to how the spill happened, the owner climbed to his feet and scratched his head. He stared at Jonathan, then raised a hand and waved briefly at him as if seeing him for the very first time.

  Jonathan blinked a couple of times. Did he really just switch off his rage so easily? Well maybe he could do that, but Jonathan wasn’t about to forget about being accused of murder any time soon. He abruptly turned and walked away, refusing to acknowledge the man in the tea shop.

  ‘This place is fucking nuts,’ he said. His left foot squelched in his shoe. The receding adrenaline tied his stomach up in knots.

  Keen to push what had just happened out of his mind, he went off to find Dr Fenway’s psychiatric practice. On the next street over and in a daze, he walked right past it. After twenty minutes of aimlessly walking around, he found it. Dr Fenway was not happy he was late.

  Jonathan had come prepared with a list of questions for the psychiatrist, but after what had just happened there was one he was most interested in.

  ‘Dr Fenway, what changes in a patient’s behaviour would require a psychiatric intervention?’

  ‘Hearing voices can point to schizophrenia, which may require medication,’ Dr Fenway replied.

  The incident with the tea-shop owner had prompted him to scribble down an additional question for Dr Fenway.

  Jonathan jumped straight to it.

  ‘Is the man who runs Eccles Tea Shop a patient of yours?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Fenwick said, a little too quickly.

  Jonathan never got to ask the remaining questions on his list. Dr Fenway gave a flimsy excuse about being late for dinner and the meeting was cut short. Jonathan left the practice wondering if he had offended him in some way. He shook it off, partially relieved to be going back to his hotel. He was exhausted. Although the burning sensation on his legs had subsided, he was eager to repair his skin.

  In his hotel room, Jonathan threw his worn briefcase on the bed, more than ready for a hot shower and a stiff drink. He peeled off his soggy clothes right down to his boxer shorts and examined the red patches of skin where the hot tea had burnt him. He touched the scalded area, feeling the beat of his heart pulsing through it. He picked up his overnight bag and removed a stainless steel skin repair tool. The repair tool, the shape and size of a Stanley knife, sat in his hand. He flicked a small switch on the side and a green beam shone from the tapered end at the top. He ran the beam over his burnt skin and the redness dissipated. He packed away the tool and stepped into the hot shower.

  The glorious heat of the water quickly revitalised him as he stood under its steady stream, but his mood was harder to improve and he tried to make sense of the events of that afternoon.

  Was the tea-shop owner suffering from mental health issues? Dr Fenway didn’t seem to think so. But something about what had happened didn’t sit right with Jonathan. It seemed real enough for him to be drawn in to the story, but it felt like an act. He would ask his boss about it when he returned to London. His knowledge in this area was textbook only, and Dr Blake, a clinical psychologist had seen far more cases than he had.

  He turned his face upwards, allowing the steaming hot water to pummel his skin.

  Why would the owner think I had killed someone? That unsettled him above all else. It made him think of Eddie too; Jonathan wondered what the hell he was mixed up in now.

  When the water began to cool, Jonathan turned off the shower and stepped out. He ran a towel briskly over his lean body, then ruffled up his blond hair with it to dry it off. He threw on some casual clothes and laid the wet ones from that day on the towel rack. With nothing else to do but think, his hotel room felt as claustrophobic as an airless box. He grabbed his key card and wallet off the bed and left.

  The Admiral Hotel was old-fashioned and cheap. The online pictures showing the hotel’s white-washed exterior, weather-beaten window frames and dated curtains had not made it look enticing—a poor throwback to a simpler time without technology and robotics and holograms. But it was within his price range, so he had booked it and hopped on a train.

  Dr Blake had drummed into him the importance of practical learning, including speaking directly to the local practices. Conferences and Continuing Professional Development were all well and good, she’d said, but you learn more when you speak to the people on the ground. Jonathan understood the importance of field work: the more he knew, the easier her job was. But his time in Spelling was making him rethink whether he wanted to be a psychologist at all. He had been feeling off these last few months—quick to lose his temper, no appe
tite—but assistant positions in the area of psychology were extremely sought after and he had no plans to give it up without being absolutely sure it wasn’t for him.

  The red-patterned carpeted stairs, the design choice of every three-star hotel, led him to the bar. Dark panelling and dark square tables with matching wooden chairs was the décor. There were just a few people in the bar. Jonathan propped himself up on a stool at the counter. The sound of a ticking clock interrupted the silence. It took a while for a server to appear.

  A middle-aged woman, heavy-set and dressed in a red and black uniform, appeared from behind a door, towelling her hands dry. She smiled at him. ‘What can I get you, sir?’

  ‘Jameson.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t get too many people your age asking for whiskey.’

  ‘I developed a taste for it.’ When he’d been a kid, it had been all Jonathan’s father had stocked in the cabinet, and the only alcohol he could experiment with at home.

  ‘Ice and water?’

  Jonathan nodded. She placed his drink on the counter and Jonathan slid some money across to her. She looked at him curiously as she pulled the coins towards her. ‘Rough day?’

  Jonathan picked up the drink, his nose absorbing the earthiness of the barrel-aged Irish whiskey. He half-smiled at her. ‘You have no idea.’ She was just turning to leave when he asked, ‘Do you know the tea shop in the village?’

  ‘Eccles? Sure do. Frank and Petra own it. Lovely couple. Their cakes are to die for.’ She patted her belly.

  Jonathan didn’t quite know how to phrase his next question. ‘Is the owner a patient … what I mean is, was he … ’ Oh just spit it out. You sound like a babbling idiot. ‘Does Frank suffer from schizophrenia or another mental health issue?’ He could hear the slow clapping in his head. Subtle. Well done.

  The woman frowned hard. ‘Frank is a decent, hard-working individual. Why would you even ask such a thing?’